


six godsdamned years

by hydroxidecookie



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:29:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24090592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydroxidecookie/pseuds/hydroxidecookie
Summary: Vetinari has kind of been flirting with Vimes for six years, but thanks for noticing, I guess...?In which Vimes, having suffered an injury while on duty, realises that the Patrician actually cares about him. And not only as a means to stay in power, either.
Relationships: Havelock Vetinari/Samuel Vimes
Comments: 37
Kudos: 154





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi, anyone who might read this. Thank you for checking this out. This is my first story that's this long, so I'm pretty nervous about it. By the way, this story takes place in some weird parallel trouser universe where Vimes and Sybil have never met and he's therefore single. It's set about six years after _Guards, Guards_ , hence the title. Please leave feedback if you can!

He wakes up with something soft tucked under his head. A pillow? There’s a sour taste in his mouth, most reminiscent of CMOT Dibbler’s famous meat pies. The taste is impossible to forget. Ah, yes, _there’s_ the pain, come to collect its dues. It’s concentrated in his head and back, but the other body parts have added their little trills to the symphony as well.

To make matters even better, the world is pitch black. _Ye gods, I’ve gone blind,_ he thinks. Then he remembers to open his eyes. He squints hard, eyelids trying to fight their way out from the thick layer of gum gluing them together. He’s in his own bed, and there’s a bandage on his head.

And then, a familiar, didactic voice to his right: “Ah, you’re awake.” 

Was that Vetinari? What was he doing here?

Vimes struggles to sit up, despite all his muscles screaming that it’s a bad idea. The Patrician is seated in a chair next to his bed, reading a book. He turns a page nonchalantly before turning his penetrating gaze towards Vimes. Even in his addled state, Vimes can feel it with his hard-earned copper’s instincts; something is different in the air, isn’t quite right. But as for what it is, he has no clue.

“How do you think you got here, Vimes?” says Vetinari, voice soft as a silken knife edge.

Vimes has the distinct impression that he’s being told off. Rankling, he rallies, “Begging your pardon, sir, but I think I should first ask you what you’re doing in my house!” He glares at Vetinari, painfully aware that the effect is ruined by the fact that he’s in his nightshirt and leaning back against a fluffy pillow. The last time he’d been awake, hadn’t he been in his uniform? He’d really passed out, then. It happens—one of the quirks of the job—but he hasn’t had to do it for years now.

“Barely conscious and already disagreeable, I see. Perhaps you should be made aware that you were found by Captain Carrot, unconscious and bleeding out, in an alley off the University,” Vetinari says almost pleasantly. 

His head twinges in sympathy. It’s all coming back to him now. He’d been chasing an unlicensed thief stealing from a _pin shop_ , of all places. When Vimes had caught up with him, he’d also caught up with the sack of bricks the bastard had somehow found. And then darkness, thudding into him like…a sack of bricks, he supposes. “What happened to the bastard I was chasing?” he growls.

“Captain Carrot had to carry you back to your home. Igor attended to you, of course,” Vetinari adds, ignoring him. Really? Damn, that was mortifying. Carrot wouldn’t mention it, of course, but Vimes would know that he knew, and he would know that Vimes knew that he knew. His head hurts.

Vetinari still hasn’t answered his question. “But why are you here, sir?” he persists. He’s going to get a straight answer out of him, no matter how long it takes. He’s good at doggedly persisting. _But why Vetinari’s terrier?_ Couldn’t he at least be Vetinari’s…um…fearsome pit bull?

The Patrician sighs, mercifully cutting off that train of thought. “Vimes, I have to request that you leave the criminal-chasing to your watchmen in future, instead of rushing headlong into things without regard for your own safety.”

Why is Vetinari’s tone so…familiar? He’s always been too busy to think about getting married, but it reminds him inexplicably of the tone some of the watchmen's wives adopt when they admonish them for staying out too late and making them worry. What a thought—maybe he’s delirious. He’s amused for a moment; then he remembers the actual words Vetinari had said, and a fresh wave of anger rises within him. 

“You can’t order me to do that!” The man had used the word _request_ , but he’s known Vetinari long enough to understand that it’s code for _order_. “What kind of watchman would I be if I just ordered my men out while sitting at my desk?” He’d be just like Vetinari. The thought instinctively strikes him as very wrong. He’s not that kind of man. Or would he become the very kind of copper he feared becoming—the spineless, paper-pushing type that all the men laughed at but none respected? He would rather die. “Sir,” he finishes lamely. 

“Perhaps the _commanding kind_ , Sir Samuel,” comes the acerbic reply. The bastard. He’d walked right into that, hadn’t he? He gives Vetinari a Look. It says: You have me there, but just you wait; I’ll think of something. Vetinari returns an arched eyebrow that says: I think I’ve won this round, then. Vimes tries to give him a challenging Look. He feels like a sheep trying to stare down a wolf. Then he remembers that verbal communication exists, and opens his mouth to speak—

Wait. Something’s still wrong. He turns his attention to his reliable senses. What are they trying to tell him? 

He’s not Angua, but he can almost smell the sour scents of fear and worry. There are only two people in the room, and he’s certainly too tired to feel much at the moment. Which leaves…Vetinari? Surely not! But then he looks at the Patrician with assessing eyes, and he really does see. 

He sees the little crease between his eyebrows, so faint it looks like a trick of the light; he sees the way his fingers grip the spine of the book just a touch too tightly; he hears his breathing, calm and regular as usual—but slightly too controlled, as if he’s trying too hard to make it appear so. Vetinari’s always still, but he’s now more still than usual, if it’s even possible; he reminds Vimes of a spring wound almost to its limit, but still deceptively motionless. 

He has to hand it to the man. He almost hadn’t noticed. But Vimes is a man who trusts his instincts. Without those very instincts, he would already be dead many times over. He’s also known Vetinari for years now. _Apart from me, perhaps only Drumknott would have noticed,_ he realises. The only two people in the world. The thought brings him a strange pride.

“What are you worried about, sir?” he asks bluntly. Vetinari’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. He opens his mouth, no doubt to deny the accusation, but Vimes is quicker. “Don’t bother to deny it, sir. I can tell how worried you are.” He taps the side of his nose; “Copper’s nose, remember?”

Vetinari stares at him for a few fraught seconds, then barks out a short, humourless laugh. “Vimes, you have surprised me. In the face of your certainty, I have to admit that I am indeed… _worried_ , as you say.”

“What about, sir? Has anything happened?” Now he’s worried as well. Has the unlicensed thief done anything while he’s been asleep? Or perhaps a new threat, enough to get even Vetinari’s wind up…Gods, he’s tired. 

“No, Vimes. Nothing has happened apart from your untimely collapse.”

…Ugh. Could Vetinari stop using the word ‘collapse’? It made him sound like a damsel in distress or something. Never mind the fact that there weren’t any damsels around these days, only seamstresses. 

“What is it then, sir?” He’s still mystified. Actually, make that “Baffled”, as they often advertised in the Times.

“Think about it. One of my best men, incapacitated. The city having to watch itself.”

He’s inordinately pleased by “best men”, then sobers enough to realise the discrepancy in Vetinari’s words. Captain Carrot had been interim Commander a few times, when Vimes had had pressing business. The city could watch itself to an acceptable level, as it had done for many years before the Watch. The Watch simply helped justice along. He knows Vetinari is well aware of that—he had, after all, been the one to make it so. 

“No, sir,” he says quietly, knowing he’s right. “You know that’s not the reason.”

He’s shocked at his own impudence. He could have accepted Vetinari’s words as one of his endless machinations, and the world would have gone on turning safely on its elephants.

Would it have paid to be more careful? After all, this is the only man who can cut him down with just one look; the one who’s given him all he has today and can take it back just as easily. But he’s not a cautious man. Today, the well-trodden ground is shifting beneath their feet, and he’s just given it the go-ahead, has told it that he’ll go wherever it takes him—even if it’s the bottom of the ocean.

He _would_ live, wouldn’t he? 

It remains to be seen. He holds his breath.

“Vimes…” For once, the Patrician seems to be searching for words. He finds them soon enough, and says anticlimactically, “…Your head was bleeding rather heavily.”

Vimes is trying to think. It’s unusually difficult. Of course, that might be due to getting hit in the head just a few hours prior.

_He’s trying to convey his meaning in as few words as possible. That’s usual; he does that almost every time we talk. But it’s not done intentionally this time; he’s genuinely feeling awkward for once, doesn’t quite know what to say._

And when the man who deals in words suddenly loses them, that’s when you know that the world might just spin off its turtle.

Vetinari’s silent again. “Sir?” he gently probes.

“If you say ‘sir?’ in that stupid voice one more time, Vimes…” 

He wisely remains silent.

“There was a lot of blood.”

“Are you really a vampire then, sir?” He just can’t resist it.

“No! What I am trying to convey so ineffectually, Vimes, is that I was...” 

“Sir?” Oops.

“I was…worried. About you.” 

“You mean you were worried about the Watch, sir? They do fine with Carrot around.” He lets his eyebrows draw together in honest confusion, and is rewarded when Vetinari closes his eyes in frustration. He suppresses a grin; it's nice not to be on the receiving end for once. 

“Vimes, you could have died.”

“Well, yes, sir, but it’s a hazard of the job. And as I've said, Carrot is a fine replacement.”

“Oh, dear. You honestly don't understand my meaning, do you?”

“Honestly? No, sir.”

“I was…concerned about you. In a... more than professional capacity.” Vetinari says this slowly, as though it takes him a mind-numbing effort. Knowing him, it probably does. This definitely isn't his area of expertise.

Vimes decides to take pity on him, and helps him out a little. 

“So, you're saying that you…care about me, sir. As a person, not just as the Commander of the Watch.”

“Yes!” The Patrician looks relieved, as if a great weight has been taken off his shoulders. “Yes, I would have thought that surely you understood that.”

“Actually, I didn't. Not until a few seconds ago, sir.” His head is spinning again and he just wants to lie down. Has the bastard knocked him into some strange parallel universe?

“But…the promotions and titles? Arranging daily meetings with you? Surely you…”

“Some would call that nepotism, sir,” he says, mock-seriously.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Vimes. I have witnessed your innumerable talents firsthand. You are indeed an arresting man.” 

Yes, he _still_ hates punes. “That’s high praise from you, sir, but I think, um, most girls don't really go for titles. More for…flowers and such. They do like dates, I think, but I was under the impression that the meetings were solely for professional matters. Of course, I'm not a girl, so I wouldn’t know.” Ye gods, what is he rambling on about? It's probably just the head wound again. Hopefully. 

“Oh. Ah. Yes. Flowers. Duly noted. I shall ask Drumknott to send some around at the earliest convenience.”

“Um, thank you, sir.” He has no idea what would be appropriate to say in this situation. _Did he just…has Vetinari actually been trying to_ woo _me for years without me noticing? Of course, he wouldn't use the word 'woo', but…_

Large parts of his brain have now shut off all other operations just to contemplate this gargantuan possibility together. Gods, he really hasn't been the sharpest tool in the shed. On hindsight…how could he not have noticed? The endless titles; the daily 11a.m. meetings? The offers to teach him board games, of all things? And what about the almost flirtatious way Vetinari always tries to wind him up? It's so _obvious_ when he thinks about it now.

He's struck by the knowledge that Vetinari has left his office just to be sitting next to him. Vetinari, who sits at his desk almost every day till midnight. For him. Not for the Commander of the Watch, but for plain old Sam Vimes.

“You really care so much for me that you would leave your city to run itself?” he says softly.  
He's forgotten to add 'sir', but he should be forgiven, considering the circumstances.

“Yes.” It's a simple reply, but stripped of all artifice. Vimes finds himself believing it, gods know why. Perhaps it’s the fact that Vetinari's grey eyes look much softer and less inscrutable than usual.

Coming back to himself, Vetinari clears his throat. “I will not trespass on your hospitality any longer, Commander. Have a good rest,” he says.

“Look out for the flowers,” he adds as an afterthought, then steps out of his bedroom, lynx-like as usual. He's gone before Vimes even has the chance to say goodbye.

Fury wells up again. The nerve of the bastard! Coming in here and saying all that, then just…leaving him to deal with the fallout alone? He's dimly aware that he doesn't know how to feel; that the rage is temporary and fragile and only serves to prevent other, more dangerous emotions from bubbling to the surface, emotions that he _really_ doesn't want to feel. This realisation only makes him angrier; he tries to punch the wall, but he's still exhausted, and only a sad thwack ensues.

He'll focus on recovering as quickly as possible. And after that? He'll go and confront Vetinari in person, find out _exactly_ what the man wants from him.


	2. Chapter 2

He's back to work within two days, like the workaholic that he is. Igor has done his usual miraculous work on the wound, and he feels almost recovered. He hasn't received the flowers, though, and is strangely disappointed about it. He'd wanted to see which types of flowers Vetinari would pick.

The Patrician hasn’t called him to the Palace since The Incident, either. Perhaps this could be excused as concern for Vimes's health, but it's been three whole days since he's returned to Pseudopolis Yard, and the entire Watch has had nothing but radio silence from Vetinari's end. He never forgets anything; Vimes thinks it far more likely that the bastard is suffering from severe embarrassment and is trying to pretend the entire incident never happened. 

It’s too bad Vimes isn't going to let him forget about it anytime soon, then.

He'd thought about a lot during that boring period of convalescence. Mostly about Vetinari, though he would never give him the satisfaction of knowing that. The long years of simmering resentment—his knuckles had always been bruised and smarting then, from punching the wall far too many times. And after that, the bruises had flowered into something almost like friendship, but not quite. He did his job well. He sometimes saved Vetinari's life. They had an Understanding.

That had satisfied him for years, but in the past year or so, he'd started noticing a lot of things that he'd paid no mind to before. During boring Guild meetings, he'd always find his eyes and mind wandering against his will towards Vetinari. He’d tried giving them a stern telling-off, but they'd rudely ignored him. Anyway, that was how he'd noticed that Vetinari's hair now greyed slightly at the temples, and that his eyes were actually a rather uncommon, almost luminous shade of grey. His hands were rather nice too, if you could overlook the fact that they were vampire-white. 

It was probably to do with being broken down, then being painstakingly built up again, bit by bit over the years, by those very same hands. He doesn't like to think about those long years before—those which he’d passed, unseeing, at the bottom of a bottle. Funny how his entire life could be divided into two parts—before Vetinari and after him. He'd been aimless, a dog without its master. Most of him bridles firmly against that thought, but he knows its truth, buried deep within himself. 

He's no fool; he knows that the man can break him down again with only a flick of his wrist. The knowledge no longer scares him; it merely intoxicates him—and that's how he knows he's probably been spending too much time with Vetinari.

So, after all that thinking, he's decided that…well, why not? It could work, at least until one of them finally succeeded in killing the other. 

It would probably be him.

Pulling himself upright in his chair, he checks the clock impatiently. Fifteen minutes to eleven, ten minutes to eleven…he focuses his hearing. Is that the sound of footsteps beyond the door? He holds his breath…and a knock sounds on the wood, right on time. It's Carrot, by the sound of it. It's a very solid knock, but not as resounding as Detritus's. The door usually has to take a few minutes to recover from those.

“Come in.”

“Lord Vetinari has asked for you at the Palace, sir,” Carrot says. 

Finally! The bastard has realised that he can't ignore him forever, then.

“I’ll be down soon, Carrot, thank you.”

After the door closes behind Carrot, he's seized by a sudden strange urge to check the polish of his breastplate. He does so with perhaps a little more care than usual. Beneath it, his traitorous heart begins to pick up speed. _Keep it together,_ he scolds himself. But his heart doesn't seem to want to obey him today, and the journey to the Palace seems altogether too short for once. 

Gods, he's actually doing this. He's actually going to the most powerful man in the city and telling him he might…like him back. Based on that single conversation from nearly a week ago, which was so bizarre it could have been a fever dream. What would he get in return? Derisive laughter? A cold “Don’t let me detain you”? Vimes isn't afraid of many things, but his neck is now cold and damp with nervous sweat.

It still isn't his most suicidal idea, though. He's already gotten a reputation for even more suicidal ideas. Strangely, the thought cheers him up a little.

He waits outside the Oblong Office in a stupor until Drumknott shows him in. When he opens the door, the Patrician is sitting at his desk, sorting through some paperwork as usual. It's all so familiar, almost comfortingly so. They've known each other for so long. Gods, he might be about to ruin all this. 

Vetinari looks up, glances at Drumknott’s retreating back, and says, “He's a capable fellow, isn't he? His filing system really is miles ahead of his previous counterpart's.”

Whatever he'd been expecting, it certainly isn't this. “Your previous secretary tried to kill you, sir, in case you've forgotten,” he says through gritted teeth. 

“Ah, but that does not preclude an opinion on his professional capabilities, Vimes.”

Vimes rolls his eyes internally. _Are we really going to have to go through with this charade?_ He makes no reply, just watches Vetinari's long thin fingers sorting through his paperwork. The bastard really does have beautiful hands. Damn. 

Vetinari clears his throat and looks up again. Vimes meets his gaze steadily, his heart almost bursting out of his chest. An eternity later, the Patrician speaks, his voice soft yet clear. “Vimes, I apologise if I caused you undue distress during our last meeting. It was not my intention. Now that it has been addressed, we can move on to more pressing business.” 

He's suddenly furious. Has he been cheated into playing one of Vetinari's little games? How could he expect Vimes to plod on faithfully, tail wagging, as if his world wasn't tilting off its axis? His words, when they finally come, are sharp-tipped arrows; “Oh, no, you don't. You can't tell me you have… _feelings_ for me, then expect me to ignore it!” 

He pauses awkwardly, then continues, “I've been thinking about what to say to you, sir. Do you really think so little of me? That I would be…displeased with you?” 

“Not at all, Vimes. Quite the contrary, in fact.” He sees the slight curve of the bastard's lips, realises he's given him exactly what he wants. Damn it! He’s about a hundred steps behind Vetinari as usual. Why does it always go like this? 

“Pray tell, what have you been thinking of saying to me?” Vetinari's voice is deceptively soft, carrying some hidden promise. The air in the room suddenly feels much too thin. 

“You still owe me some flowers, sir,” he says breathlessly.

There's a dangerous silence. Is the man actually…smiling? It's a small smile on him, but basically equivalent to a full-blown chuckle for another man.  
“Quite right, Vimes. I will have them sent over by tonight.” 

Ugh, he's had enough of this…coy hinting and veiled meaning. It smacks of the horror that is _diplomacy_. He isn't good at this; it only makes his head hurt and blurs his meaning. A flash of inspiration strikes him. He doesn’t _have_ to play on Vetinari’s field; gods know he makes his own rules often enough. Maybe this is his chance to do something the omniscient arsehole would never expect. He's going to wipe that bloody smile of his face—quite literally. He calculates that he has about a fifty percent chance of continued life. It's probably worth the risk.

Damn it all. With suicidal certainty, he grabs Vetinari roughly by the lapels and smashes his mouth into his. There's a split-second glimpse of wide eyes and a muffled “mmph” of shock, then Vetinari's actually _kissing him back_ , and he can feel Vetinari’s warm body against his, feel his thudding heart rivalling his own; gods, who'd have thought that he'd be so _warm_ , that his heartbeat would be shuddering in tandem with Vimes's own? Who knew that he was just a man under it all? 

He knows he’s making embarrassing whimpers he didn't know his voice was capable of, but he can't find it in him to care right now, not while the heat from the Patrician's hands is bleeding into his skin, and his teeth have just grazed his bottom lip just enough to hurt. He's shivering like all hell, and might be about to collapse. Only the humiliating prospect of being passed out in front of Vetinari two times in a row prevents him from doing just that. 

He's the first to pull away, panting. He must look a mess, with his hair mussed and sweat dripping from his forehead. The bastard somehow looks utterly composed, as if he'd only been sorting his paperwork the whole time. The only clue is his breathing, slightly more rapid than usual, and his faint smile.

 ** _three months later_**  
He doesn't remember much about what came after. Vetinari had said “Vimes, indeed, you never fail to surprise me,” in his usual infuriating way, as if he hadn't just had the life kissed out of him. And Vimes had just shaken his head, because what else was there to say? He'd somehow gotten back to Pseudopolis Yard, and into his office, where some tiny part of his brain propelled him through his mercifully simple work. After that, his legs had brought him home, where—he remembers this very well—there’d been a bouquet of lilac flowers on the doorstep.  
He thinks he remembers that he'd laughed. 

But now he's back from his night patrol, and apparently Vetinari's (he'll probably never get around to calling him Havelock) decided to stay over, because there's a curled-up shape in his bed. 

It turns out that the Patrician does sleep after all. And he should probably get a bigger bed. 

**_end._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's it :) thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me what you thought if you can :)


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